


I Know A Thing About Contrition  (Because I've Got Enough to Spare)

by inkslinger_outlaw



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Blood, Depersonalization, Depression, Graphic depiction of self harm, Hurt/Comfort, Mention of The Shining, Self Harm, Texan Accent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 05:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1971372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkslinger_outlaw/pseuds/inkslinger_outlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were so sure. You were <i>so fucking sure</i> that you could handle it. Handle everything. You just can't, though. Can't even get through a day without cutting your goddamn self to ribbons.</p><p>Pathetic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know A Thing About Contrition  (Because I've Got Enough to Spare)

The bathroom door makes a soft click when I shut it. I don't bother with a lock. They're meaningless in the Strider household. Locks are worthless here. No lock if safe from the delicate touchings of Strider hands. Hide your windows hide your knobs. 

The room is flooded with gross, yellow light when I flip the switch and I grimace at the tint. At least it's not red like last month. I couldn't begin to count how many times I walked into the bathroom only to see REDRUM written on the mirror. In permanent fucking marker.

It's still there.

I very, very quietly and very, very carefully stand on the toilet seat. I reach up towards the vent and gently take the pre-loosened screws the rest of the way out. Biting my lip, I set the vent plate on the sink's counter and reach inside. _Yes!_ I silently cheer in my head. It's a fucking miracle Bro hasn't found this shit. The unassuming box in my hand is thin, white and wide. I slowly climb down off of the toilet seat and sit down on the edge of the tub. I turn and reach behind myself, setting the shower on full-blast. Steam instantly starts to well up and I tug off my t-shirt. I grimace when the long sleeves rub against my still raw arms. 

_This is fucked up._ Unfortunately, that thought alone isn't enough for me to go running to Bro. Even though there's something seriously wrong with me. Even though everyone's starting to see there's something not right with me. Even though I've obsessively thought about killing myself more and more frequently as this year goes on. I just... I can't. No fuckin' way. To let him know I'm this messed up after all the shit he's done for me? Sacrificed for me. No fucking way. I can never tell him.

I breathe out and lift the lid off of the box, tossing it onto the bathroom rug without a sound. I remove the paper thin false bottom with no expression. That's the problem, you know? Feeling things. I can't feel things sometimes. Even if I want to... And sometimes that makes me wonder if I'm real. And then sometimes I lose time. Small slots of it. Minutes where I can't remember what I was doing. And hour here or there that're just blank. It's scary. It's really disorienting. And I keep wondering if I'm even real. And then sometimes it feels like I'm doing things I've done before. Like everything is staged out. Like. Maybe no one else is real. Like they're shadows on background. Actors on a stage. That's scary too.

I'm scared a lot.

So when I do this. When I fuck myself up and see myself bleed and fucking hurt myself, I can breathe for a little while. I can feel like a person for a small frame of time. I can find a bare hint of relief from feeling fake. So fake. So not here. So away from things. Far, far away.

It almost feels like I'm sitting next to myself when I pull out the blade of a pencil sharpener. It's pretty new, actually. Oh, there's a spot of blood on the corner... I hold it firmly in my left hand. The sharp blade digs into my wrist. 

Take a deep breath. In.

I slash it downward and my skin splits apart instantly.

Gasp Out. Shaky breathing. I can't. No. Can't focus.

There's no blood and there's no sting now. Fuck. Shit! I watch for another second. ShitshITshit sh i tShItshitfUCk.

The gap in my wrist starts to fill with blood. It's really goddamn warm when it starts sliding down my hand. I don't move when it drips drips splats onto the pink bathroom rug. I can hardly breathe.

Minutes pass. Seconds? There's a haze in my head and a giant ass stain on the rug now.

I'm still drip drop dripping blood blood fuck there's a lot of it I should actually probably be flipping about that stain but I don't even feel anything just wow that's some dark blood right there.

_Tap_

I lift my head slightly.

_Tap Tap_

Nooooononono oh shit shit FUCK NO he shouldn't be home he fucking works tonight what the fuck! 

"Dave?" His texan accent is thick, a little concerned. "Dave." Firm. Authorative. I'm fucked. So fucked so fucking fucked! My heart pounds and I stand far too quickly and shit if my head doesn't swim as gracefully as a fuckin' dolphin. I start to fall forward, unable to support myself. _So stupid so ssstupid so FUCKING goddamn stupid oh my god I'm **stupid**_

I fling my arm back, trying to grab the shower curtain. I spatter blood across the floor and toilet. My mouth gapes and I fist the curtain in my hand, only to bring it down with me. The rings all seem to snap at once and I gasp again as I crash into the door. Bro lets out a stratled sound on the other side and immediately throws the door open. I stare up at him in confusion. Everything's a bit weird.

Wrong _wrong_ **wrong hella wrong**

Do I care.

Is this happening? 

His gloved hand reaches down and I groan, pain radiating through me. My arm's on fire and I'm so fucking lost here. What's happening?

Is this happening?

"Dave! Holy shit, holy _shit_!" 

I'm hoisted up, shoulders held by large, warm hands. Shaking, I correct. Warm and shaking. My head lolls to the side and I try and get my head back the fuck together.

"Nnng..." I try and look up, my gaze lands somewhere on Bro's creased forehead. _When'd he get those lines?_

"Kid. Kid! Damn. Okay, just... Fuck, I should call 911!" I place my hand on his neck, frowning.

"Stop worryin'," I mumble. He says nothing and drags me into his room, setting me on the bed. Everything's a little less staticky. "Bro? Dude." My words become a little firmer, but still liquid. "It's ok." He wraps a thick cloth around my wrist. " _Seriously_." He shoots me a look that shuts me right the fuck up.

Long moments pass and his bedroom wall is cool against my hot skin. This is embarrassing if nothing else.

A skipped beat later, he decides to break the silence. 

"What the hell, Dave." Oh man. That makes me feel good. 

"Dunno'," I murmur, shutting my eyes. "Dumb teenage bullshit." I'm startled when he pulls me forward and puts his big, man arms around me.

"Dude." He shushes me.

"No. We ain't... jesus kid, please don't shut down on me." I place my head on his shoulder, arms weakly surrounding his waist.

"Yeah... ok." 

It's quiet for a long while after that. He holds me and it's really nice. It's what I've been needing. Maybe things wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been a stupid pussy about everything...

"I really, really fuckin' love you, kid." I nod as best I can against shoulder, a lump forming in my throat. 

"Yeah, Bro. I... I know." If him taking care of me my whole life and singing me to sleep and feeding me and bathing me and teaching me self defense so I don't get beat up by bullies and working three jobs to support my ass ain't love than what is?

Christ I've been stupid.

"Sorry," I murmur. Tears start to break forth and it _hurts_. "So sorry," I whimper. I cling to him tighter and he rubs my back, holding onto me like he'll lose his shit if he lets go. 

He just might.

Bro presses his face into my neck. It's a little awkward while I'm trying to do the same thing with his chest now, but it works.

"Nah," he responds, voice a little scratchy. "Don't gotta be sorry, Dave. Not at all." My crying gets more out of control, but still he holds me, giving me support. "You wanna see a therapist, 'Lil man?" I nod against him and he hums. "Well alright then. I'll look for one in the mornin', yeah? You'll be ok, kid. Because I'll be there for ya. Because I love ya. You'll be ok..." He's trying to convince the both of us. I just keep hugging him and crying like a little bitch.

I'm not okay. Not at all. But maybe some years from now I can start to be. I just hope Bro don't give up on me by then. Because I know I've given up on myself.


End file.
